


Born to be Broken

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dave can't talk very well, Dave's POV, Depression, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Speech Therapist, Implied/Referenced Speech Therapy, M/M, Memories, No Sburb/Sgrub AU, One-Shot, Sexual Abuse, Showers, Speech Therapist, Suicidal Thoughts, That's why he's got a speech Therapist, broken character, second person narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My body is a temple, so is yours,"</p>
<p>No, no, not anymore, it's not. You've been violated and exposed and left open- awaiting as a victim for a predator to come and gobble you up, and you don't know if you can find it in you to care anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born to be Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on AO3, and as the tags have helpfully reminded, THIS IS NOT A HAPPY STORY! I want to tag trigger warning because this is probably extremely triggering. Please keep in mind that I have never been in this type of situation, so I have no personal experience. It's probably gonna be pretty bad, so keep that in mind. Anyway, TRIGGER WARNING!  
> And now, on to the story, shall we?

Scrubbing at your body until your skin feels raw, ready to rip off at any of these moments in time, where the seconds tick by in an endless row of painful reminders from just an hour ago's activities, is not how you expected to spend your Thursday night. Video games and chatting with EB, TT, or GG, maybe, but this? It's like you're in a separate reality, one that you don't want to be in. One that causes more pain than you want to ever have to deal with.

 

Your name is Dave Strider, and you feel dirty.

 

You give special treatment to _His_ marks, the marks _He_ gave you, the ones _He_ left on your body. Those. Yeah, they get special treatment, as said before, but not the type of special most people might think of. 

 

No, no you practically try to rip at your skin to get _Him_ off, because even though _He_ probably thinks _He_ did you a favor by shutting you up and making you take it, you don't want _Him_ on you. You never wanted _Him_ on you. You don't want _Him_ to touch you or to see you or to be near you, and you want to get _Him_ off, get _Him_ off, get _Him_ off-

 

"Get _Him_ off."

 

The phrase makes you ill just thinking about it, and you want to shove soap in your mouth, in your head, in your mind, to clear it of what is going on inside. You want to burn your eye sight, maybe then you'll forget the way _He_ looks. You want to shove your fingers down your throat and vomit up anything in your stomach, because maybe if you vomit enough you'll forget how _He_ tasted. You want to burn yourself alive, because maybe if you caused yourself that much pain, you'd forget what _His_ hands felt like when they grabbed at you like a child grabbing a new toy from under the tree- shaking it to see what sound it made, and if _He_ could tell what it was just from that.

 

By now your bruises are not just sore, they're fucking burning, and those scratches are now bleeding crimson, those tiny cuts are letting loose the red that pumps through your veins, like there is no tomorrow.

 

Hell, maybe there is no tomorrow. Can there be a tomorrow when there's barely any of you left for today? Because you sure as hell don't feel like there is a tomorrow. You hope no tomorrow comes- you hope you bleed out and die, because it sure seems like a possibility, as you stand in a shower coated in red, the blood of not _Him_ , but of you, and you have to keep reminding yourself that this is your blood, _your_  blood, _your blood_.

 

From _your_ veins, from _your_ skin, from your ass as well, and you just can't take it, because it hurts too much and yet you feel so little. Too much is being processed in your brain at once, so much that you can't even process anything anymore and it's just a loop of fucking thought that is pressing in your head and you can't _get it out_.

 

And you're stuck, in a mindless loop of auto pilot in a world full of planes, and you're trying to fly each one to find which is yours, like fucking Goldilocks and the porridge- too hot, too cold. But unlike her, you can't find your in-between. You can't find what works for you.

 

There is no "safe haven" or "shelter" or "hospital" that can help, save, or fix you because you don't think anything can fix something this broken.

 

Something as broken as you.

 

You're like a house, hundreds of years old but still standing, people breaking you and fixing you and caring for you and abusing you all at once because time has melded together and yesterday blends with six years ago, and you can't tell which hurt more- the first time, or the last.

 

"My body is a temple, and so is yours,"

 

No, no, not anymore it's not. You've been violated and exposed and left open- awaiting as a victim for a predator to come and gobble you up, and you don't know if you can find it in you to care anymore.

 

And even though you've rubbed yourself raw, you still feel _Him_ on you, grabbing you until you were reduced to nothing more than a shell of the person you were before this happened. You feel the grip of _His_ hands on your arms, and the wrap of _His_ arms around your waist, and the crescent indents of _His_ nails when _He_ gripped your thighs, and it itches and burns so violently that you want to cry and scream and-

 

Stop.

 

Breathe.

 

You let out shattered breaths, and collapse to the shower floor, your throat aching from your screaming and your wounds and marks are on fire under the little beating the shower is giving you. You feel like you're under attack, with dozens of tiny toy soldiers shooting at you from above. Each spray of water is an infinite line of bullets from an automatic machine gun, but since it isn't killing you, it's obviously a toy, because toys aren't meant to kill kids, and the thought makes you choke on a mix of laughter and sobbing because isn't it so childish of you to be thinking that way?

 

You remember the first time, when you were young.

 

Seven years old, you were still a kid.

 

_He_ told you it was a new game. "To help." _He_ said.

 

_He_ told you it was a secret game.

 

_He_ told you not to tell anyone.

 

_He_ told you it would be okay.

 

_He_ didn't tell you how much it would hurt.

 

Bro didn't say anything when you refused to take showers, or baths, in the shared bathroom.

 

Bro didn't get on your case when you wet the bed on more than one occasion.

 

No.

 

Bro told _Him_ instead.

 

_He_ got angry.

 

_He_ hit you.

 

_He_ didn't play the game with you again, and _He_ told you _He_ was sorry, because _He_ "knew how much you hurt."

 

Like hell _He_ did.

 

"It hurt _Him_ , too."

 

No, it didn't.

 

A year passed, and everything was back to the way it was before the incident. You were eight when _He_ began the game again. This time around, _He_ threatened you. If you told anyone, _He'd_ hurt you, real bad. You didn't tell anyone. It wasn't too bad, anyway. Nothing past forced touching.

 

When you turned ten, He forced you to suck _Him_ off. "A present for double digits!" _He_ told you, ruffling your hair. Yeah, some present that was. _He_ said it like _He_ was so sure, too, like _He_ knew that every ten year old was just absolutely  dying to get a penis in their mouth.

 

Then it went back to normal, and another six months passed before _He_ began the game again. You knew it was wrong. Thanks to that presentation on abuse at school one day, you realized you weren't fucked in the head for hating _His_ "game".

 

You were eleven when you knew, subconsciously, for a fact, that this wasn't normal. That _He_ shouldn't be doing this.

 

But, it being your subconscious, you still felt a upset that you didn't like it. It was a present- a game- how come you didn't like it more? How come you didn't like it _at all_?

 

So you continued to keep quiet. You felt like it was the least you could do for _Him_ , after not liking _His_ game.

 

Twelve was when you finally got it out of your sick little head that it was okay. You still didn't say anything, though. You were scared. Bro would surely hate you for not standing up for yourself. Bro would hate you for not saying "no" (even though you did say "no". You tried to say "stop", too, but your mouth wouldn't form the words because you weren't fully aware on how to).

 

On your thirteenth birthday, _He_ went all the way. _He_ was ruthless. _He_ didn't care about you. _He_ used a condom, but that was about it. That was the first time he went all the way with you.

 

_He_ hit you when you made noise.

 

Cut you when you fought back.

 

Insulted you the entire time.

 

_He_ spouted words at you, "Perfect", "Beautiful", "Amazing", "Slut", "Whore", "My princess".

 

Phrases; "You love this, don't you?" "You're getting off on this." "What a slut you are, getting off on getting hurt."

 

Told you that if you told anyone about this, _He_ would kill you.

 

No.

 

No...

 

No, _He_ took that back.

 

"If you tell anyone about this, I will make your life a constant living hell, and make you wish you were dead."

 

_He_ must have seen how much you wanted to die, but _He_ must not have understood that you already wished to be dead.

 

_He_ cleaned both of you up, told you that you were a good boy- that _He_ couldn't wait to do it again. _He_ must have thought you were enjoying what _He_ did. _He_ asked if you'd be ready for another round of this new and improved game in a few months.

 

You swallowed your hate, your mouth still tasting like bitter flesh, and fought back tears, though you were already crying. Tears flowed freely down your cheeks. You whispered out the phrase you had managed to perfect over these years-

 

"Yes, sir."

 

Today is December 3rd, 2009.

 

Today also just so happens to be your thirteenth birthday.

 

You sob, the pelting water on your bruised skin now cold.

 

Bro is knocking on the door of the bathroom.

 

He's telling you, "You've been in there for too long, Li'l man, and you're wasting the hot water."

 

You pull your knees tighter to your chest, ignoring the way your sore muscles protest against the action.

 

Bro tells you to, "Get out of the damn shower."

 

You were born to be broken; that has to be it, because you're having trouble finding a true reason you were put on Earth for.

 

Bro knocks again.

 

Born to be broken. That has to be it. It has a certain ring to it, as well. Just your luck. Your purpose had a ring to it, but that purpose wasn't a good one. You want a new purpose, but you know you can't have one. This one is set in stone.

 

The more you think about it, more you believe it to be true, because you have been tossed into a garbage so thick of disgusting haze and piles of shit, that you can't see a reason anymore. Was this your purpose? Was this what you were born to do? If God does everything for a reason, did God do this to you? What was God's purpose, why did God do this?

 

You hope _He_ had fun tearing you apart until up and down are just concepts so far away that you have to recite the definition of both twenty times in order to understand. You hope _He's_ proud of Himself for hurting you more than you thought possible. You hope _He's_ proud that pain is just a feeling instead of an ache- you hope _He's_ proud of Himself for breaking you so many times, that you were actually mended by being broken just one more time. You hope _He's_ fulfilled _His_ life fucking goal by putting you on Earth, just to make you want to be taken off.

 

Happy birthday to you, right?

 

Yeah.

 

Happy birthday to you.


End file.
